Yet all this pomp was utterly eclipsed by the splendour which radiated from the new Padishah; he seemed enveloped in a shower of pearls and diamonds.  Whichever way he turned the roses embroidered on his dress, the girdle which encircled his loins, the clasp of his turban, and every weapon about him seemed to scatter rainbow sparks, so that those who gazed at him were dazzled into blindness before they could catch a glimpse of his face.

Behind the back of the throne, flashing with carbuncles as large as nuts, stood a whole army of ministering servants with their heads plunged deep in their girdles.

It was into this room that Halil entered.

On the threshold his two conductors released his arm, and Halil advanced alone towards the Padishah.

His face was not a whit the paler than at other times, he stepped forth as boldly and gazed around him as confidently as ever.

His dress, too, was just the same as hitherto—­a simple Janissary mantle, a blue dolman with divided sleeves, without any ornament, a short salavari, or jerkin, reaching to the knee, leaving the lower part of the legs bare, and the familiar roundish kuka on his head.

As he passed through the long apartment he cast a glance upon the dignitaries sitting around the throne, and there was not one among them who could withstand the fire of his gaze.  With head erect he advanced in front of the Sultan, and placing his muscular, half-naked foot on the footstool before the throne stood there, for a moment, like a figure cast in bronze, a crying contrast to all this tremulous pomp and obsequious splendour.  Then he raised his hand to his head, and greeted the Sultan in a strong sonorous voice: 

“Aleikum unallah!  The grace of God be upon thee!”

Then folding his hands across his breast he flung himself down before the throne, pressing his forehead against its steps.

Mahmud descended towards him, and raised him from the ground with his own hand.

“Speak! what can I do for thee?” he asked with condescension.

“My wishes have already been fulfilled,” said Halil, and every word he then uttered was duly recorded by the chronicler.  “It was my wish that the sword of Mahomet should pass into worthy hands; behold it is accomplished, thou dost sit on the throne to which I have raised thee.  I know right well what is the usual reward for such services—­a shameful death awaits me.”

Mahmud passionately interrupted him.

“And I swear to thee by my ancestors that no harm shall befall thee.  Ask thine own reward, and it shall be granted thee before thou hast yet made an end of preferring thy request.”

Halil reflected for a moment, and all the time his gaze rested calmly on the faces of the dignitaries sitting before him.  His gaze passed down the whole row of them, and he took them all in one by one.  Everyone of them believed that he was seeking a victim whose place he coveted.  The rebel leader read this thought plainly in the faces of the dignitaries.  Once more he ran his eyes over them, then he spoke.